


Winter's Touch

by Welsper



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Het Mpreg, Human Sacrifice, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-11-09 08:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17998772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsper/pseuds/Welsper
Summary: Beyond the wall, a bond is made.





	Winter's Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fairleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/gifts).



“Lord Commander! We must turn back! _Bran_!” Leor’s voice barely made it through the storm howling around them as it desperately tried to reach him. Bran paid it no mind. He had to find her.

Even now he could clearly see her, as if she stood right in front of him. It was like her image had been seared into his mind.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever set eyes upon. Hair as white as freshly fallen snow cascaded down her shoulders and back and almost reached the frozen floor upon which she stood. Her eyes shone like sapphires, as beautiful and dangerous as the stormy waters of the sea. Her pale skin was clad in a gown that reflected the light and the leaves and the stars like a finely crafted blade would.

Bran had led a garrison out on a ranging after reports of Others near the wall had been received from Greyguard. It was autumn now and the lords and ladies of Westeros fortified their castles as the Night’s Watch fortified the wall. It had not been in his lifetime, but Bran remembered his father the king, Eddard Stark, telling him about the Long Night their fore bearers had lived through that nearly brought an end to all life. It were those tales that had led Bran to join the Watch where he had quickly risen through the ranks and was elected Lord Commander at sixteen.

It was as well a duty as any other and Bran did it proudly. Never did he question his vows until she came to him in a dream once he had passed the wall.

She waited for him at a frozen lake there and Bran knew he had to find her. The moment the horns had blasted thrice he had taken off on his horse and had now been caught by his ranger.

Leor spurned his horse and barred the way. Bran’s steed almost panicked and threw him off but he made her come to a halt.

“This is madness, Bran! You may be a fine commander, but you cannot take those icy bastards alone! We don’t even know how many there are! At least take me with you!” But Bran knew. It was her. She was calling him, through his brothers that had gone scouting ahead, using their air and lungs to beckon the commander.

“Out of my way, Leor,” Bran said and he saw the man flinch from the cold and harsh demand in his brother’s voice. Leor Lannister was a good man. A second-born son, just like Bran. He was the same age and had been swinging a sword for almost as long as he could walk. In battles, bran knew Leor would always have his back. But should he stand in between them and stop him from seeing her, Bran would draw his blade.

“I must find her.”

“Is your trust in us so little that you do not want us at our side in a fight? Will you die alone, and leave your men to themselves? Me too? Have you made me First Ranger as a jest, then? Have you no faith in me?”

“Turn back, Leor. I will say this to you once.”

Bran made his horse run into the storm before the ranger could say any more. Soon he had lost him and his dreams guided him towards the one thing he longed for more than anything in the world. Towards her.

His fallen brothers laid around her, some still with their weapons in hand. She was unharmed, and that was all that mattered now. She stretched her arms out, waiting for him, calling him, a faint smile on her blue lips.

Her voice was ice, chilling him to the bone, it was as if his body would never warm again now she had set the cold in him. She spoke no language Bran had ever known, but he knew what she desired. What he desired. Bran unsaddled and like a moth drawn to a candle’s flame, stepped towards the woman made of ice. He shrugged off his fur coat and dropped it where he stood, unfaced by the cold.

One by one, he shed off his clothing and when Bran stood before her, he was naked. The cold seeped into his bones, prickled at his skin, but he welcomed it. He reached out to the woman and when he touched her cheek, she leaned into it with a smile that warmed his heart despite the bitter cold. She did not stop him when he trailed his hands downward and slipped the gown off her pale shoulders.

Now before him, she was even more beautiful than in his dreams. Bran had never had a woman before and while he had been steadfast in his vows before, now it occurred to him how cruel they were. How could anyone be denied such beauty?

Gently, reverent, Bran let his fingers glide over her skin, down her collarbones to her ample breasts. She leaned in towards him and Bran met her halfway. He shuddered as their lips finally met. She was not harsh and unforgiving like the winter she seemed to be made of, she was soft and welcoming and Bran longed to be closer. Down his fingers went, over skin so cold it should have burnt his own off, but the touch made him feel warmer and warmer. Her breath hitched as he let his fingers glide between her folds and inside her.

“You will not have the Lord Commander, witch!” The trampling of a horse hooves on ice made Bran tears his eyes off the woman’s body he longed for so desperately. Leor was riding towards them. Of course he would still find them. That was why Bran had made him First Ranger, after all. It was really such a shame though. Because there was nothing that would make Bran turn back now. No friendship, no brotherhood.

The ranger jumped off his horse and charged towards them, a dagger made of dragonglass gripped tightly in his gloved hand. It never reached her. Bran had shielded her and Leor’s eyes where wide in confusion as his Lord’s hand dripped with blood where it had stopped the blade.

“Why?”

Leor was a strong man, a better fighter than him, but his confusion made it an easy thing for Bran to lunge forward and draw the ranger’s sword from his hip. Having never even heard her move, Bran felt the woman’s hand join his on the weapon’s hilt and together, they plunged it deep into the brother’s heart. Her eyes were now glowing in the same way Bran had seen the Other’s do as they hunted him, as he hunted them, yet he did not want to fight this one at all.

“Come with me,” Bran told her as he held her tightly to himself as the blooded sword fell to the ground.

“No ranger shall ever hunt you again, not as long as you are with me. I shall make you my queen, and we will rule the wall together!”

Bran pressed their foreheads together. He followed the woman’s gaze and together they saw figures made of shadow and ice staring at them. Others, he knew. Would they not give him their sister? Bran could hardly blame them, after all they had done to each other.

“Will they not let you leave?”

A dowry for a snow goddess would cost him everything, but Bran was willing to pay.

“Tell me. What would it take?”

“A gift...” Even her speaking the Common Tongue still sounded inhuman and Bran was not even sure she actually spoke so much as directly whispered into his head. She placed her hand onto his stomach and Bran understood.

In red snow, they fell together, cold skin on warm. Bran gave her his everything, his body and soul and all else she might want of him. His breath hitched as he entered her, her softness surrounding him. He could scarce tear his eyes of her. With a gasp, he could feel the cold enter him as if she was inside him the same way he filled her. His hands wandered over her body, between her legs and over her soft breasts as they moved in unison, quiets moans and gasps filling the frozen lands in which they coupled.

With one last thrust buried deep inside her, Bran spent himself and felt her magic fill him all the same. He welcomed it and placed his own hands over hers as they covered his stomach. With strange fascination, he looked down on himself. Already he could feel another presence inside him. The gift he would prepare to keep her with him, at his side. As his queen.

Name and title or not, he loved her either way. He wasn’t truly of House Stark either, not any more. Together they could make a new house for themselves, a place for themselves, a mark upon history by two who the world wanted to forget were even there to feel safe in their homes.

With ice pooling at his belly, he returned to the campsite of his ranging, his queen following on Leor’s horse. Some brothers drew their swords, but when Bran spoke, he felt new powers surging within him, a presence in his voice that compelled them to listen despite their better knowledge. Bran no longer had any reason to hunt Others beyond the Wall. He had found what he was looking for. So he abandoned the ranging and the brothers returned to the wall not as the Night’s Watch, but as the subjects of a new Northern King, with his Queen at his side and something growing inside him.

The Black Gate would no longer let him through. He spoke the words, a lie, really, but it remained sealed and silent all the same.

That was well enough, for Bran no longer had any desire to live as a brother of the Night’s Watch. So he passed the upper gates, barred and frozen to keep what lay beyond the ice structure out. But Bran brought the cold with him, she rode beside and inside him. His thrall over his brothers let them through. The ones who seemed to be able to resist the magic were put to the sword.

It was an odd feeling to have something grow inside him. The maester was no help, for he had never seen anything like it. Sometimes a brother shot him an uneasy look as he grew heavy.

The creature was pale and cold, fine tufts of white hair covering its head. Glittering blue eyes looked up at Bran as snow crunched beneath his boots. Bran's coat fluttered in the wind as he left the gate behind. Thick fog was making it impossible for him to see far, but he could make out shapes behind the mist. A rider who seemed to be waiting for him. Waiting for the sacrifice Bran had grown inside him.

With his head bowed, Bran laid the bundle down onto the snow before the turned around. The rider spoke to him then, as he turned his back, in that strange language. A word of thanks, perhaps, if the Others knew such a concept. A promise of powers kept. Until they would come the next year.

And every year, they did come. King and Queen kept a child ready for them, their love growing stronger every year and bearing fruit upon fruit. Cold babes with white hair and blue eyes all of them, born through their coupling with old blood magic. Bran’s powers grew with each pregnancy until there was not a single brother in the entire Watch questioning his fealty to him and his white queen. Now there were three kings in the cold regions of the North. Brandon Stark of Winterfell, his brother The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and Joramun, the King Beyond the Wall who was gathering a wildling army.

Letters arrived from Bran’s old home sometimes, begging him to remember his vows, to cast the woman away. Bran refused every time.

He had pledged his love to her. She had made him king, gifted him powers and children, a legacy that would linger far beyond his death. The vows that had bound him to the Night’s Watch had made him nothing, given him nothing and would forever reduce him to nothing. A footnote in some maester’s babbling, right next to a list of cheeses stocked for the winter. Bran had no plans on going back, to playing shield for a realm growing fat and lazy.

One day, the letters stopped. Bran knew what it meant.

\---

“Your Grace! The enemy is almost upon us.”

“Take him to meet his brothers.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The brother took the child from his king’s arms. The last one of them. Thirteen she had sired on him, one for every year they had reigned together. Each one of them cost the life of one of his dearest brothers. Leor, the first of them. Robert Bolton, Arlin Cargyll and his brother Arnett, William Hollard. Marik, Harry Ryder, Meri, Peter Brownhill and Lear Hoare. Robin Briar, Duran Bolton. Dominic Dryland had been the last. His queen had used their essence to impregnate him, something Bran had never truly understood but had come to accept either way. All of their children had been taken far beyond the walls by the pale riders, into lands where the ice never thawed and the snow never stopped falling. There they would the true kings of winter. One day, they would return home and bring the winter with them. A winter like his father had told him about, that killed old and young alike and sapped the lands of all the warmth, one where the sun went down one night and never rose again.

Bran would most like not see it. He overlooked the Gift from his window. It seemed all of the North had gathered to march on the Nightfort. The other castles had already fallen, the ravens had told him. Thousands of shields and spears and bows were down there and with them his brother. The one who called himself the King of Winter when he had never even known true cold. Maybe one day his children would.

“Come, my queen. My brother has come for me at last. Let us receive him.” Bran held out his hand and his lady took it, and together they rose from their thrones of bones and ice and frozen blood. Tenderly, Bran reached for the icy cheek of his queen. Still, the skin was so cold it almost scorched his fingers. But his love for her burned brightly and hot inside him like it had all those years ago when he had first laid his eyes upon her at the frozen shore of his dream.

Hand in hand with his queen and with his blade drawn, Bran set out to face the two kings who had come to take his head.


End file.
